


Streaming Down from Lebanon

by kirael



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angel Dean Winchester, Angst, Apocalypse, Crisis of Faith, Demon Castiel, Falling In Love, Fluff, Gen, Historical, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-21
Updated: 2017-02-26
Packaged: 2018-09-26 00:08:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 9,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9853040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kirael/pseuds/kirael
Summary: "You are a garden fountain,a well of flowing waterstreaming down from Lebanon.Awake, north wind,and come, south wind!Blow on my garden,that its fragrance may spread everywhere.Let my beloved come into his gardenand taste its choice fruits."(Song of Soloman 4:15-16, New International Version)In which Dean is an angel, Cas is a demon, and they fall in love anyway.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> gotta love those fairly sexual biblical quotes

Cas likes to find joy in the most unexpected of places.

Which is why they’re here, sitting on the hood of Dean’s favorite car gazing out onto a rest stop where a trio of children—siblings—are playing tag.

Dean nudges Cas with the hand not holding the beer bottle. “Hey, Cas,” he says. “Do you believe in God?”

“Hmm…?” Cas blinks and turns his head to look at Dean; in his distraction, his eyes flash black. He blinks, and the color changes back to the brilliant blue he favors. Cas inhales, the relieved inhalation of narrowly escaped disaster, and exhales, the last breath of a dying man. “Do I believe in God?” he repeats, the side of his mouth lifting in the barest of smiles. “Isn’t it blasphemous to ask that? Especially to someone like me, from someone like you.”

Dean shrugs, rolls his shoulder, and lifts up his beer to take a deep gulp. “Do you?” he says, unrelenting and unwavering. The beer, cheap and bitter, stays on his tongue long after he swallows it down. The shadow of a smirk ghosts over his face, there and gone again within an instant.

“Of course I do,” Cas says, “though it mostly depends on your definition of believing. You’d be awfully forgetful to not believe.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Do I now.”

“Yeah, you do. Spill.” He rests his head on his hands, propping up his arms with his knees. A silly grin rests on his face, clashing with bright green eyes more serious than sin. “C’mon, Cassie,” he says.

Cas frowns. “You know I hate being called that,” he mutters.

“Would you rather I call you hellspawn?” Dean teases lightly.

Cas raises his eyes heavenward and lets them fall back down, landing on Dean. They’re weighted, a sort of feeling that reminds Dean of the first frost of winter, cool and beautiful and something that signals silence and darkness yet to come. “I think my thoughts are much the same as yours,” he says.

Dean makes a sound somewhere between a grunt and an odd questioning noise. Cas seems to take that as a signal to continue.

“Besides,” he says slowly, “you angels keep going on and on about-”

Dean interrupts before he can get any further. “Woah, woah, woah,” he says. He holds his hands up defensively. “Don’t lump me in with all those other assholes.”

“Even ‘Sammy’?” Cas says, mocking and kind. His eyes sparkle with amusement.

“Especially Sam,” Dean declares. He looks back at the kids.

The kids’ mother calls out to them. “Joey! Kyle! Maria!” she yells. “We’re leaving!” She looks pissed, angry in the way only an overworked and stressed mom can be angry. Joey or Kyle screeches and almost tackles her, and Maria runs after him. Kyle or Joey climgs into the car without a fuss, though he has a gigantic, mischievous smile on his face.

Dean jabs a thumb at them. “Cute, huh?” he asks. “We should get some.”

“That’s biologically impossible,” Cas says reasonably. “Besides,” he adds, “you’d be a working dad. Your child would be left all alone.”

Dean lets his face fall into a pout. “You’d take care of her for me. When you’re not going around wreaking havoc, that is.”

Cas turns his head to look at Dean. His hair is artfully, painfully mussed, dark and the perfect length to grab, and Dean thinks he looks better than ever. “Her?” Cas says. “Has it already been decided that we’re getting a female?”

Dean blinks, staring at Cas for a long moment before throwing his head back and laughing. “Never change, Cas,” he says once he regains his breath. He doesn’t know why he finds this so funny, other than the fact that it’s _Cas_.

Cas looks proud of himself, and if he had wings, if they weren’t tattered and broken and burnt and reduced to bones, if different choices had been made, he would be puffing himself up like a peacock. Then the moment passes and Cas's whole being seems to darken. “I believe it’s too late for that,” he says cheerily, but a dark current runs under his words, hiding under the syllables.

Dean stares at Cas’s hand fiercely, and after a myriad of expressions pass over his face, he moves his hand to cover Cas’s. Cas, of course, notices, gripping Dean’s hand and squeezing it in comfort. The darkness has dissipated, replaced by a light calmness that envelops Dean, smothers him in peace and the sort of otherworldliness only Cas can convey. He breathes it in, tries to absorb it into his very being.

They sit like that, hands together, and they watch as the kids drive off in a litany of shouts and the off-key beginning of “The Wheels on the Bus.” Dean, with his enhanced hearing, can hear Joey or Kyle shouting about how they’re not on a bus and how they should sing something else, which Maria clearly disagrees with, and _will you all be quiet for just a moment_? There’s a round of laughter coming from the kids.

“We’d be awful as parents,” Dean declares, smiling.

Cas makes a soft noise, which Dean takes as a sound of agreement. The air crackles around the two with all the tension as a storm approaches, despite the fact that the sky is clear and the clouds are sparse. The rest stop is right next to a small lake, and if Dean had the opportunity he’d be fishing; it calms him like nothing else. It’s peaceful, Dean realizes. Peaceful in a way it hasn’t been for millennia, for centuries and eons.

Dean, fingers twined together with Cas, breathes it all in.


	2. Chapter 2

The first time they meet (officially, truly), it’s among the ruins of Sodom.

(Fitting? No, quite the opposite.)

Dean looks up at the sky—a dark, brown soup with clouds of dust so thick they blot out the sun. Horrifying, in a way. In another way, beautiful. The city is pure, now, free from the rampant sin that had enveloped the place like the tentacles of a hungry squid.

If he concentrates, he can sense Michael and Raphael all over this mess. A cold breeze brushes past him, bringing with it the smell of rotting corpses and smoky ash. He knows what that means. He stands up from his kneeling position, following the direction of the smell.

A demon holds a dead girl in his arms, stroking her hair with an odd sort of fondness. The demon wears the body of a young man, smooth skinned and mostly blemish-free, marred by the fact that the upper left side of his face is completely torn off, revealing flesh and bone in all the wrong places. There’s a flash of blue beneath stringy brown hair as Dean approaches, and the demon throws the body aside. There’s a loud thud and a rising cloud of dirt when she hits the ground. Stiff, he shifts in his skin like it’s an ill-fitting outfit.

The earth is (relatively) new, and Dean still wears his wings in the material realm. They’re a crisp, clean white, and he holds them high, proud and unrelenting in his own righteousness. Dean flares them out when the demon starts to speaks.

“The city looks different from when I was last here,” the demon says when Dean doesn’t speak. There’s a flash of teeth when he talks, animalistic and bright under the light filtered through the thick film of ash settling in the sky.

Dean lets out a huff through his nose and crosses his arms over his chest. “I think we have you lot to blame for that,” he spits out.

The demon blinks, as if genuinely shocked. “Watch your tongue,” he warns. “If this comes to a fight, I assure you, I can gladly hold my own.” He smiles, then. “How is Heaven?” he asks. From where Dean is standing, his voice is built up with layers, betrayal and curiosity and spite and concern, laced with poison and maybe, just maybe, a bit of longing. “Is it still the same? Uriel still bossing people around?”

Dean stares at him. “I’m not here to gossip, demon,” he growls.

“Castiel,” the demon says.

“What?”

The demon frowns. “My name. Castiel.” He contemplates this for a moment. “Once, I kept pulling on Lucifer’s wings until I managed to rip a few feathers out. I was locked up in Heaven’s prison for four days and nights until Lucifer was kind enough to let me out. Does that help your memory?” His forehead crinkles a little as he squints, and he tilts his head. “You are Dean, are you not?”

Dean frowns, crosses his arms over his chest, and raises an eyebrow. “If I’m not?”

“Then I will have embarrassed myself for nothing. Judging by that response, however…” His voice trails off, and the shape of his mouth twists into something far more feral. “Dean. That much has not been taken away from me.”

Dean circles around Castiel like he’s prey, dark and menacing while trying to be unassuming. “Why are you here?” His wings rise like the hackles of a cat, flaring up bright and beautiful behind him.

“You do not have to act hostile,” Castiel says. “And,” he says, pointing to a burning building raging on next to him, “after all, as you said before, I am a demon. This stinks of your kind, and I was sent here to investigate.” Bright, blue eyes flicker to an inky black as he speaks, a simple, natural transition he doesn’t even seem to notice. Castiel looks down at the bodies, voice dripping with pity as he says, “This waste is regretful.”

If possible, Dean’s wings flare up even more until he just looks like an overenthusiastic pigeon. “Regretful?” he says. “You’re joking.”

Castiel has the audacity to look surprised. “Why would I be joking?” Castiel asks. He seems, despite Dean’s instincts, sincere. “Lying is a sin.”

“Your kind is incapable of emotion,” Dean says, haughty and imperious. “Regret is beyond you.”

“Perhaps,” Castiel says idly. He strolls toward Dean, eyes soft, looking at him from behind a curtain of eyelashes. “I could say the same for you.” As he gets closer, Dean glares at him until his eyes turn into slits. Castiel grins, predatory, and when he gets right into Dean’s personal bubble, Castiel reaches up, pulls Dean down, and kisses him.

Castiel is, admittedly, a bad kisser. A really bad kisser. He’s stiff, unyielding, unpliable (as is Dean), and his lips taste of iron and tragedy. Despite that, the kiss still manages to be hot and sweet and dirty and decidedly _not_ angelic at all, though it never quite approaches demonic. Not that Dean can tell, not yet at least. There’s time for that yet.

Dean can’t help but lean into it, cling to it and keep it as his own, even if every instinct screams at him in agony.

As Dean grows compliant, Castiel softens a little bit as well, melting more and more into the kiss as it goes on.

Heat ripples off Dean in waves, absorbed by Castiel, cold and icy, a sponge to Dean’s leaky faucet (faucets—humans being endlessly creative). It’s interesting, strange and fascinating, the way Castiel opens up and consumes Dean: a black hole gulping down a galaxy.

They stay like that, Castiel emanating glee and dark humor and Dean dumbfounded, for a short while until Dean pulls away.

“What was that?” Dean demands. He shoves Castiel up against a crumbling wall, burnt and broken and falling to pieces, one arm pressed against Castiel’s neck.

Castiel licks his lips, dry and chapped, before answering. “I-” is the farthest Castiel gets, because Dean lets go and, in a gust of wings and feathers, flies away. Castiel looks at the spot where Dean used to stand, tilting his head in his infuriating way. For a second, he looks like an innocent young child, bird-like and intrigued by the strange, mystical being that just disappeared.

Then he smiles, and the illusion is broken.


	3. Chapter 3

Samuel can’t lie—seeing Dean like this is the highlight of his century. Said angel is delightfully furious, flapping around the training ground with no regards to rudeness, like he’s one of the messengers.

“He’s cute,” Joanna comments, drawing Samuel’s attention away from Dean’s ranting and to her, who should be leading a training session but is instead watching Dean break down.

“Yes,” Samuel agrees. He reaches up to adjust her halo.

“One of the fallen,” Dean yells, “trying to tempt _me_!”

Samuel raises an eyebrow. “Well,” he says, all logic and reason and unintentional obnoxiousness, “that is their-”

Dean whirls around, glaring at Samuel with anger and wrath, old testament style. “If you say that’s their job I will-” He seems angry at everyone and everything today, brimming over with fury and righteous glory.

Samuel and Joanna share a meaningful look. “Dean,” Samuel says hesitantly, “if that demon is bothering you so much you should report it to Zachariah.” He ignores Johanna rolling her eyes at them from where she’s polishing a sword.

Dean snarls out, “I’m not sucking up to the bosses, Sam. I can deal with this menace myself, no help required.” He crosses his arms over his chest, huffing and puffing like he’s getting ready to blow a house down.

Joanna stands up with an armful of weapons and armor, shined and sharped until light is not only reflecting from the celestial metal, but also so that light is emanating from the metal itself. “You two are wearing me out,” she says, and adds, “Work through your issues,” as an afterthought. Then she spreads her wings, a complicated maneuver that sounds like the clashing of metal on metal and blade slicing flesh, and flies away. H

Samuel looks sheepishly to Dean and extends a slight tendril of grace to him, a light, brotherly gesture. “Joanna was always the most sensible one,” he says, and Dean couldn’t agree more.

-

When Dean falters while killing one of the firstborns, he’s pulled back into Heaven for a full year until he rejoins his garrison on Earth.

Everyone, even grumpy, irritable Bela, agrees he’s changed, and not for the better.

-

Dean and the garrison end up being sent on Moses-duty; namely, the Red Sea. While Samuel, Johanna, Robert, and the others protect the mass of people crossing, Dean is actually the only one doing any real work. Standing atop a nearby mountain, Dean holds the sea apart with sheer will and a bit of celestial power. Of course, this is when the demon shows up.

“Hello, Dean,” he says. He looks the same as last time. “Having a bit of trouble there?”

“No,” Dean says through gritted teeth. “Go away.”

Castiel paces around Dean, humming a mad little tune under his breath. “Do you ever wonder,” he says, “why God doesn’t drag Himself down to do this work for Himself? He has infinite power, and it’s such a shame not to use it.”

Dean’s left eye starts twitching.

“How long will you have to hold this? I could help, if you like.”

Small splashes of water land on the ground by Moses’s feet; he’s only a bit concerned.

“It must be tiring to be an angel.”

Dean turns his head slightly to glare at Castiel. “If you don’t leave right now-”

Castiel smiles—a soft thing of amusement and gentle laughter. “Your brother - he’ll be here to relieve you of your duty soon. Good luck.”

Sure enough, Samuel flies over, ready for his shift, and by that time, Castiel is gone.

“Hey,” Samuel says, “you ready?”

“No,” says Dean. “Not at all. I need to prove a point.”

-

Dean watches Castiel claim victory over a lion’s corpse, the crowd a screaming riot around him.

The lovely string of emperors, courtesy of Castiel, comes to its height at Nero. He sings along in his croaky, warbling, beautiful voice with Nero as Rome, the eternal city, burns around them.

This time, it’s Dean, twirling the Mongolian army ‘round and ‘round in the typhoon between the archipelago and the mainland. Castiel watches, and laughs.

Time passes, and it passes, and it passes.

-

“We’re marching on Jerusalem!”

The thousands of crusaders, fervent for their cause, cheer and attack the city relentlessly. Dean is not among them. He is watching.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel says, appearing at Dean’s side. Cas has laughter in his voice when he speaks. Neither of them mention the circumstances they’ve found himself in. It’s become a habit now, to not.

Dean frowns, barely surprised. “Yes.” He closes his eyes and breathes in the dusty evening air, the humidity almost suffocating at this time. It’s growing darker, and the brilliant painting of orange and red is stunning, but Dean has seen an innumerable number of sunsets, an innumerable number of dawns and evenings, and for now he just absorbs.

Cas adjusts his jaunty little hat and places his hand on his sword, which rests at his side. “You look different,” he says.

Dean’s face falls as he opens his eyes. “It’s not my vessel that’s changed,” he says. How can it be? He’s had the same body for thousands of years, long enough so that it was just him in there.

Cas's expression doesn’t change, doesn’t even flicker as liquor materializes in an empty hand. He offers it to Dean. “I did not expect you here,” he says, voice a low rumble of thunder that conjures up images of light and glory manifested into something dark and angry. Changing the topic. Typical.

Dean scowls and grabs the alcohol. “On a job. Why are you here? _”_

Cas can feel the sarcasm through Dean’s thoughts, and his grip on his sword. “I was ordered here,” he says.

Dean stares at his nails, broken and chewed off. He heals them and thinks for a moment.  “Which one of you started this?”

Cas turns, the tiniest glimmer of amusement sparkling in his eyes. “Which one of us started this?” he repeats. “I had thought it was one of yours. One of the archangels, maybe. I assumed it was a mass cleansing or something silly like that.” He grins. “Apparently not, then. Humanity did this to themselves. They are creative creatures.”

Dean can’t help but agree, but he shakes his head. “They are, yes. But I highly doubt they can be that cruel. Your kind—it’s their nature to start things like this. I bet it was Lilith. She’s, well, especially prone to things like this.”

Castiel chuckles, more sarcasm than actual joy. “You presume too easily,” he declares. “Faith is a damning thing.”

Dean shrugs. “And you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?”

“Maybe. You surely have more qualifications for this topic.” Cas takes a seat by where Dean is standing. “Why are you here, Dean?”

Dean frowns. “I said. A job.”

“Yes,” Cas says. “I know.”

A beat of silence.

Dean breathes in, though he doesn’t need it, and sits down next to Cas, though he shouldn’t. The dirt is warm and sinks down when he rests on it, his body creating gentle impressions in the ground.

“Why are you here?” Castiel repeats softly.

“There’s a lot of reasons,” Dean starts, but Cas cuts him off by tackling him to the ground.

“I’ve had enough of this,” Cas growls. His hand twists bitterly.

Dean finds that he can’t breathe, that Cas’s angry, angry fingers cut off the path from his nose and mouth to his lungs. “Castiel,” Dean says, voice harsh and choked. He stares up at Cas’s eyes, bright, shining blue, and mad, until they soften and his grip lessens in intensity.

Cas lets out a sigh and lets go, straightening back up and smoothing out his shirt. “Dean,” he acknowledges.

“Is it like this, then?” Dean asks.

Castiel smiles. “Like what, _Dean_? Meeting, not talking about why we’re there, treating each other like friends when we should the most despicable of enemies, like this isn’t obscene and laic, _profane_? Saying each other’s name like it’s the holiest of words, sticking in my throat as I choke it out-” He stops talking.

And here, Dean feels his breath catch, unwilling to leave his lips.

Castiel stands up. “I have Conquest to watch over,” he says. He looks at Dean for a brief second, eyes an unreadable black, before he disappears.


	4. Chapter 4

Meg chokes on the stifling sensation of living. “Damn it,” she curses, not to anyone in particular, then breaks out into a series of coughs.

She turns her head to the side to see Castiel sitting cross-legged, his back hunched forward, his left hand viciously and absentmindedly tearing the grass from its roots. He stares at her, eyes bright, his focus entirely on her. Damn it.

“Castiel,” she manages to bite out after reining in her coughing.

“Apologies,” he says, dipping his head. “I wasn’t sure how long it would take for you to get used to Earth. It can be...hard.”

“No shit, sweetheart” she says.

“Are you alright?”

At this, she starts laughing hoarsely, which goes on for a few seconds, or maybe a few minutes. She can’t quite tell. All those years, stuck among fire and brimstone, and this is what she comes back to: an obnoxious ex-angel with a penchant for cluelessness.

“Are you alright?” she hears again. It’s all she can do to not punch him the face.

Acid in the air. The smell of burning. Sulfur. It takes Meg about 30 seconds to realize it’s the smell of _her_. What she is now, in the world of the living.

She giggles madly as she stands up and brushes herself-no, not herself, her brand new shiny meatsuit-off. “Sorry ‘bout that, Cas. Too giddy, if you catch my drift.”

“I understand,” Castiel says. “I was much the same when I came back to Earth after many years of exile in Hell. Of course, you’re handling it a lot better than I did.”

“Oh? What’d you do? Chop up and eat a whole infant?”

“Something like that.”

 _Great_. If Meg is lucky, she will not have to listen to her new boss ramble on and on about his tragic backstory. She’d had enough of that in Hell.

Lucky her, instead he just stands up. “I’ll...see you in the future,” he says and starts walking away, done with her now that he’d gotten her what she wanted. Doesn’t ask for a “thank you” or even an acknowledgement.

She flexes her brand new shiny fingers and stares at her brand new shiny body and breathes in the fresh air. It’s taken so long to get permission to finally come to the surface, and now she’s here, and she has her orders, and there’s a whole wide world out there.

Thank God, or Satan, or somebody.


	5. Chapter 5

Patching up wounds is easier when the other person is one of the few people you’ve seen consistently over the last few thousand years.

And so, like clockwork, they eventually come together.

“ _What_ are you doing here?”

Before Dean even turns around, he knows who’s there. “I could ask the same.” Around them, time freezes, the chaos of Easter mass in Florence temporarily stalled.

Castiel glares at him, obnoxiously innocent blue eyes bright with fervor and passion. “None of your business, _Dean_.” He spits the last word out as a curse.

Dean shrugs. “Fine.” He holds Castiel’s gaze as steadily as he can, and tries not to sink into it. It’s harder than he thinks, at first, but he’s determined to win, even if it’s this small, petty competition. And unsurprisingly, he doesn’t. Cas’s glare doesn’t weaken a bit, only seeming to grow stronger and Dean has no choice but to glance away. When he looks back…

When he looks back, Castiel’s gaze is replaced by something softer, something like dark stretches of coral and shallow blue sea framed by a cloudless sky.

And Cas’s hand is on his shoulder, his hold firm and careful. “Same old,” he says, words elaborate and enunciated cleanly. “I’m here for a job.”

“And I suppose I’m here to oppose that, then,” Dean replies.

Diametrically opposed, but not mutually exclusive.

“Last time,” Cas says, still staunchly staring at Dean, “you asked if it was like this. And I recall replying...passionately.”

Dean has to stop himself from laughing. “Passionately? If _I_ recall correctly, you were practically spitting fire.”

“Nonetheless,” Cas continues, as if Dean had never spoken, “I concede your point. It is. Always like this, that is. Or at least, it seems so. Back and forth, we speak as if our words make a difference in what we do, in what we believe, in what we _are_. I understand it may have been better to express that in a less inflammatory manner, but I was high-strung at the time. I’m sorry.”

“Wait-”

Cas takes his hand off Dean’s shoulder and brushes imaginary dust off his clothes: another habit picked up. “I’m sure I’ll see you again. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a murder to arrange.”

Time starts up again, and there’s a scream and a flurry of movement.

Dean’s pretty sure that was the murder that he was actually supposed to stop. Well, at least only _one_ of the two died.

-

Eventually, instead of meeting spontaneously, they actually begin arranging meetings. This time, it’s in the vast plateau by the tallest mountain ranges in the world, where they sit, watching the animals and sometimes, the people. It’s happening more and more often.

Today, it’s horses: wild, strong animals, violent and gentle.

“Do you ever-” Dean starts, his eye on a young foal separated from his mother, but cuts himself off. He can’t ask, not even now, so long after.

But Cas just tilts his head. “Ever what?”

“Do you regret it?” He doesn’t need to clarify what exactly “it” is. Cas knows.

A careful, measured silence follows, swelling up like a boil and only popping when Cas finally replies with, “No.”

Dean waits for Cas to elaborate, and when no elaboration arrives, he says, “Sorry.”

“No,” Cas repeats. “No, it’s fine. I should...get over it. It’s been, what? How long has it been?” He pulls his knees up to his chest and shakes his head. “Too long.” He smiles then, weary and weighed down but genuine. “I thought I was doing the right thing,” he mutters: half-whisper declaration.

“Yeah,” says Dean.

 _“You always do,”_ is the unspoken phrase, breathed aloud in another time, another place, another world.

But here, he stands up, brushing the grass and dirt off himself, and offers a hand out to Castiel.

“We can ride together.”


	6. Chapter 6

Meg presses delicate, possessive kisses into the curve of Ruby’s neck, and thinks that this is as close to Heaven as she’ll ever get.

After, Meg brings Ruby a sweet pastry made of honey and jelly, and two days later, Ruby gives Meg a bejeweled necklace snatched from the grave of a long-dead noble, like two birds fluttering around each other, exchanging small tokens of goodwill as courtship gifts. When Meg brings this up, Ruby laughs and kisses her.

Ruby’s a witch, more than a little selfish, with a mean streak as long as Meg’s life, and she’s perfect.

- 

Cas, Dean, Sam, Meg, Jo, all the others: they’re not quite sure what they are; if they’re friends, allies, enemies, or just incomprehensible beings masquerading as humans.

Whatever they are, the intricate and altogether tiring dance they do together wanes and waxes as often as the moon.

Sam muses on this while he sits in a library, absently flipping through a book on rabbits or something just as menial. Sure, he probably does have something better to do, but Sam mentally shrugs and focusses on the very real possibility that the relationship between their garrison, with Jo and Bobby and Dean and himself, and the small, ragtag group of demons Castiel is acquainted with will be discovered, either by Cas's bosses or Sam’s. Neither of those sound pleasing.

There’s murmurs of the Apocalypse—as there are every year—and from what Sam’s heard, they’re starting to get antsy, bored, tired. Bad news, if an apocalypse is the last thing you want, and the pesky little humans are something you’re beginning to grow fond of. But Sam knows that it’ll be a while yet (he has a bit of divination in him, some unexplained power that had first reared its head a century ago), and he doesn’t fret.

And when his thoughts turn to Castiel and Dean, he laughs, gains the attention of more than a few scholars, and pushes them out of his brain. He loves them, as much as he can, but honestly, there’s only so many places a mind can go before just breaking down.

A hand lands on his shoulder.

He looks up and sees Jess.

“Hi,” she says.

Sam smiles. “Hey,” he says.

She opens her mouth to speak, but not before she’s cut off by Sam catching her lips in a kiss. Jess smiles against his mouth.

When they break apart, Jess is slightly flushed. As she brushes her hair back away from her face, she says, “I didn’t expect you to be back so soon.”

Sam shrugs. “Sorry,” he says.

Jess hooks her arms around Sam’s neck and pulls him down to kiss her. It’s only fair.

- 

“Something’s happened.”

Dean looks up from where he was staring at a piece of parchment. “What?”

“With Meg,” Castiel clarifies. He has a little pout on his face, uncontrolled and thoughtful. “She’s different. Strange.”

Dean blinks. “Different how?” He doesn’t know Meg much, and has only seen her when she was with Castiel, doing some job or another, playing as the faithful second-in-command, though in reality she was always up to her chin in her own business. Last time he had seen her, she had been waist-deep in animal slaughter, and honestly, he doesn’t even want to know.

Cas crosses his arms over his chest, the folds of his outfit sharp and angry as if to match his mood. “She’s different,” he repeats. Then his frown deepens. “I know for a face that for the next decade Hell is probably going to be stuck sorting out bureaucracy issues. There are no orders, and she’s free to do mostly whatever she wants, and yet-” He exhales a long breath of air. “She’s ‘busy,’ whatever that entails.”

Dean mentally exhales as well. He had thought is was something a lot more, well, bloody. “Yeah, so? Let her do what she wants. She’s her own person—or demon. Whatever.”

Cas shoots Dean a glare that could melt the polar ice caps. “Meg is never busy. She’s frighteningly efficient.

“Right,” Dean replies, still skeptical. “That doesn’t necessarily mean anything bad or that she’s changed. What’s really the deal, Cas?”

Cas makes a small, frustrated noise and unfolds his arms, letting them dangle loosely at his sides. “Meg is—she’s acting _content_.”

Now this makes Dean take notice and sit up a little straighter. Meg is the kind that’s always, forever, aiming for the top, no matter what it takes to get there. Content would be the state of mind she would be in only when she died, and Dean even doubted that. Angry at her passing, maybe.

“Yes,” Cas growls, like he can hear Dean’s thoughts. “We should go check on her.”

Dean doesn’t have the heart to stop him. (And even if he wanted to, he wouldn’t.)

And as it turns out, he doesn’t have to.

Meg has a sweetheart, as she so affectionately calls her.

While Cas hides his surprise with a face of blankness, Dean just about dies laughing.

-

What Joanna ( _Jo_ , she insists to her garrison) prides herself on is this: a gleaming golden knife, a tattered battle helmet, a small strange animal with skin like loose hay, bright canary-yellow wings perfectly groomed, and the look on Dean’s face when she manages to get oil in his wings. They laugh until they can’t laugh any more. Dean, although he tries to act angry, smiles and tells them to get back to work.

(“What work?” Jo asks, stifling the last of her giggles.

Dean’s face suddenly turns grim, and he reaches to tug at the oil-stained tips of his wings. “We’ve got an assignment,” he says, “from Michael himself.”

Dean can feel the increase in tension as he mentions that name, so he plows on. “We’ve been stationed at Earth.”

Everyone looks confused; they’ve been stationed on Earth for almost as long as the humans have been roaming around free, so it’s nothing new.

Dean continues with a, “We’re not allowed to interfere anyway.” Now that, _that_ causes some confusion.

“We’ve been –“

“What about –“

“And there’s –“

Dean cuts them off with a wave of his hand. “Orders are orders,” he says. A small part of him disagrees.)


	7. Chapter 7

Cas has way too much fun “blending in,” throwing up illusions faster than Dean can blink, settling on the look of a young woman with dark flowing hair and shining, bright eyes.

“I quite enjoy the feel of this outfit,” Cas declares as he spins around in a circle, almost tripping over his own feet (he's awful at dancing, all fluttering limbs and elbows knocking into everything and everyone near him: a doe learning the feel of its limbs).

Dean has a disapproving frown on his face but the crinkle of his eyes indicate otherwise. “You would,” He says the fiddling with the buckles on his own, rather ridiculous, outfit. The Neanderthals dressed more sensibly than this, and, well, they hardly wore anything at all. He has to admit though the satin does make him feel very comfortable and fancy.

Cas twirls around again and almost slips on the floor. “I picked out myself,” he says.

“It’s awful,” Dean replies, picking at his collar. Immediately, he regrets the statement, coughing once to cover his awkwardness. “But, er, you make it work.”

But Castiel doesn’t seem fazed, grabbing Dean and pulling him into a waltz, humming a soft little tune as he does so. “How’s work?”

Work. What Dean wouldn’t give to throw work to the wind, leave its corpse for the crows and vultures.

“Just as ever,” Dean says. “Sam met this girl a while back, but she’s mortal and she died last year. Devastating for him, of course. We caught him trying to rip out his grace and did everything we could to keep the whole thing away from the bosses. Didn’t work, of course.”

Cas brushes invisible wings over Dean’s shoulder in comfort.

Dean continues: “Sam was going to be sent back but Jo managed to convince them that he should stay since we’ve got so much trouble these days in the Americas and Europe and Africa. You wouldn’t have anything to say about that, would you?”

A firm shake of the head. “No. Hell long stopped mass producing woes. Individualism is in, plague and war is out, though humans seem convinced on the integrity of war anyway. Hell’s mostly stuck on bureaucracy issues and figuring out soul sustainability. Just as dull as it sounds, I’m afraid.”

“How’s Meg, anyway?”

Castiel laughs. “She’s amazing. Better than ever. Spends all her days in the French court with Ruby as her “sister.” Last I heard of her, she was messing with dear Antoine.”

Immersed in their own conversation, they seem to have forgotten the party still going on around them. A couple dancing by gives them a heated glare, passing right by them in a whoosh of air, and Dean winces, the sweetness of their conversation now dissolved into anxiety.

“I should go,” he says. “This mess isn’t for me.”

Cas frowns but makes as if to leave the hall.

“Wait,” Dean says, wondering what is happening in his grace that’s making him say all these odd things. He grabs Cas's arm. Cas raises an eyebrow in response. “I misspoke. I meant-it might be, uh, our only chance,” Dean continues.

“Dean,” Cas says, warm and filled with affection and amusement. “Are you propositioning me to dance?” he asks, bewildered. His hand not encaptured by Dean rests at his side, poised for an invisible fight. Castiel’s hands, Dean notes, are delicate and powerful things, no matter which form he takes, ever so careful in their movements, like a dancer or a bird taking flight.

“Yes,” Dean mutters, and when Cas opens his mouth to say something Dean snaps out a terse, “Shut up.” He drags Cas out into the middle of the dance floor, hesitantly puts his hands on Cas's waist, and flinches when Cas gently corrects him.

“Dancing,” Cas says. “Nothing else.”

Dean nods and focuses on Cas's hair at the moment, curled and bouncy and tied up neatly in a blue ribbon. Every once in a while he looks around, eyes darting back and forth, and he looks about five seconds away from throwing up.

Cas's hand finds its way to Dean’s cheek, and he keeps it there, stroking him softly until Dean’s muscles unknot and he relaxes. Then the wandering hand moves to Dean’s shoulder, where it stays. Cas hums under his breath. “This is nice, isn’t it?” he murmurs.

“What?”

Cas's smile is small but radiant. “Dancing,” he offers by way of explanation. Then, “Our people—us—we’ve been locked in a cold war for millennia, and up until a few centuries ago we were fighting battles everywhere. Cities were leveled, Dean. And after all that, this—this is more peaceful than I could ever imagine.” His eyes take on that shiny quality that means he’s getting lost inside his own head, and Dean tugs on one of his sleeves to bring him back.

“It is nice,” he says absently, tracing circles on Cas's skin. Cas doesn’t comment, but his smile grows wider. “Besides,” Dean says. “Those old feuds don’t apply to us. We’re friends.”

“Friends.” Cas says, like Dean had asked him to scatter stars across the sky and create a new constellation in his name. He grips Dean’s skin tight enough to strangle and presses a careful, open mouthed kiss to his cheek. “I like that.”

-

“Clarence!” Meg says. “Were you listening to me?”

Cas blinks. After Dean calling him “Cas” for so long, it’s disorienting to hear his actual name. “Meg?”

Meg rolls her eyes and puts her hands on her hips. “Look, sweet cheeks, I know you’re one of the big boys, but Azazel’s going to skin you when he finds out about your little crush. Lucifer’s coming back, Castiel. And _you_ have to do your job.”

“I’d rather not,” Cas says bluntly.      

“Yeah, well, suck it up. You’re in this, whether you like it or not. Me, now I’m expendable. I only got here through sheer talent and a whole lot of ass-kissing. So you better listen, and make sure I’m not fired. Clear enough for ya?” She’s right. Meg is young, barely a demon (at least, compared to Cas), and she has already pushed and stabbed her way up the demonic ladder. If not for Castiel’s status, he would have been kicked out (read: killed) the first couple centuries.

Castiel sighs. “Does Azazel have a plan?” he asks, then, belatedly, “I do not have a ‘crush’, no matter what you think.”

Meg snorts, a strange thing full of humor and mockery. “You keep telling yourself that, sugar.” She grins, and Cas contemplates her true face, not quite human, not quite animal, but something dark in between, smoky and thorny and beautiful. “Of course Azazel has a plan,” she says next. “He and Lilith are always plotting with each other. It’s sickeningly sweet.” She waits a moment before speaking again. “Tell them that, and you’ll regret telling me about that angel.”

“Of course, Meg,” Castiel sighs.

“The Apocalypse is coming soon,” Meg warns, her voice light and frighteningly cheery.

They’re in the poorer part of the city, even looking the part, with their bare, ragged clothing and gaunt frames. Castiel sits on the floor cross-legged, mulling over the various bacteria and viruses lying in wait to attack. He nurtures them and urges them to breed with a touch of his hands.  “That’s what they always say,” Cas murmurs.

“Don’t be so cynical. Gives you extra wrinkles.” Meg hoists up one of the dead bodies strewn around them, victims of the latest illness that had swept through the town and killed none but those who didn't have enough to fight it, to throw into the river. “Start another massacre,” she advises when she comes back. “It’ll melt some of that tension away.”

Castiel breathes in, breathes out, his hands resting on his thighs, eyes closed. “Meditation,” he says, “works a lot better than going on a killing spree. It is both relaxing and invigorating, and helps you concentrate.”

Meg rolls her eyes for what seems like the thousandth time. “There’s the Clarence I know and love.” She flexes her shoulders and sits down next to Castiel. “Don’t even know how you even became a demon.”

“Heaven was corrupt. At the time I saw it necessary to purge it of those I deemed particularly irredeemable.

“Yeah, well,” Meg says, grinning, “I don’t see you saying that about that Dean fellow.”

“He's different.”

“And what, my dear, makes him so different from all the other angels you so easily lump into one group?”

Castiel doesn’t say anything.

Meg hums. “I knew it.” Meg presses a harsh kiss to the top of Castiel’s head as she stands up. “Don’t make a mistake you’ll regret.” She walks away, and Castiel is left in the dust and dirt.

-

Dean sits for dinner at a low-end restaurant trying to pretend otherwise tucked in the armpit of New York City and finds himself enjoying America, much better than he did Europe or Asia or Africa, its blunter manners finding a welcome home in him. He thinks he might stay a while longer than he did the last time, when it was wrecked by war and havoc. Then again, when was it not?

Castiel, well…

Cas swirls his wine around in his glass and breathes in the mannerisms and charms of the world and savours them. In new places, he can be slow at picking up the culture, but he dives headfirst as soon as he’s able to stay afloat.

If Dean knows Cas, (and Dean very much knows Cas) Cas’ll be on the next boat to China or India, some ancient restlessness taking over and forcing him to explore and take in all he can before he can't.

They're drunk.

Normally, this wouldn't be able to happen, but Dean had, at the start of the dinner, declared with a wink that there's no real point to alcohol if you can't get drunk. Thus: alcoholic beverages with 800% more alcohol.

“The cars,” Dean states. “Man, the fucking cars. The _wheels_.”

Cas nods in sympathy. “Agreed.” He hiccups.

“No, no, Cas, you don’t understand. Sam had this-had this horse. Donkey. Rhino. Whatever. And he-you know how he’d get these dogs? The one he had was named Bones or something. Sam was trying to shoe the horse. Put horseshoes on it. ‘Cause he’s a nut. And Bones just leapt in there, and the horse just kicked him. He didn’t budge at all, but he let go and backed away and the dog was barking and the horse just kicked the dog. Wow. Fuck.”

Cas nods along.

"A car can't do any of that shit. Kick a dog. It's all yours. I never thought I'd find a better way of traveling than flying but I'm hooked, man. I've got this sweet thing that lets me just roll through the streets like - fuck."

Dean shakes his head. "Sober?" he asks.

Cas takes a sip of his wine. "Perhaps later," he says. "I like to watch."


	8. Chapter 8

“Something’s happened.”

Dean looks up from where he was staring at a piece of parchment. “What?”

“With Meg,” Castiel clarifies. He has a little pout on his face, carefully controlled and thoughtful. “She’s different.”

Dean blinks. “Different how?” He doesn’t know Meg much, and has only seen her when she was with Castiel, doing some job or another, playing as the faithful second-in-command. He remembers the first time he had seen her, sometime a decade ago. 

She had been dressed in the finest of outfits, beautiful and elegant in a way Cas or Dean could never pull off. Even her smirk was refined, her manners carefully thrown away to be replaced with snark. 

Even though Dean had only shared a brief conversation with her, he couldn’t see her any other way.

Cas crosses his arms over his chest, the folds of his outfit sharp and angry. “She’s  _ different _ ,” he repeats, as if Dean understands him. Then his frown deepens. “I know for fact that for the next decade Hell will be sorting out bureaucracy issues. There are no tasks to be done, and yet-“ He exhales a deep breath of air. “She’s ‘busy’.”

Dean mentally inhales a breath of air as well. He had thought it was something a lot more, well, horrible. “Yeah, so? Let her do whatever.”

Castiel shoots Dean a withering glare. “Meg is never busy. She’s frighteningly efficient.”

“Right,” Dean says, skeptical. “Still, this doesn’t mean she’s changed. What’s on your mind, Cas?”

Castiel makes a small, frustrated noise and unfolds his arms, letting them dangle loosely at his sides. “Meg is—she’s acting  _ content _ .”

Now, this makes Dean take notice. Meg, he knows, is the kind of person (person? demon?) who would always be aiming for the top. Content would be the last state of mind she would ever be in, and that would be when she died.

“Yes,” Cas growls, like he can hear Dean’s thoughts. “We should go check on her.”

Dean doesn’t have the heart to stop him.

-

Meg has a  _ lover _ , as she so affectionately calls them. 

Dean just about dies laughing. 

-

“You’re getting too caught up in this,” is the first thing Dean says when he walks into Castiel’s room. It’s an artist’s loft, bright and open, with light flooding in from all places. Cas perches in a corner of the room, masses of blankets and other fluffy things piled onto him, a paintbrush balanced on two fingers, stoned beyond belief. Dean raises an eyebrow and kicks away some of the junk that has amassed on the floor. 

“Getting too caught up in what?” Cas demands.

Dean squats down to look through a photo album filled with pictures of bees and flowers. “Humanity,” he says.

“You say that,” Cas says. He splashes a seemingly random patch of green onto the canvas he’s using. His voice is soft, so soft Dean has to strain to hear it, and even then it’s a background noise to the city outside. “But you’re the same, aren’t you?”

Dean doesn’t answer, only stands and picks up a half finished portrait of a woman. The colors are dark and rough, almost scratched on with claws. There’s a drop of red paint—maybe blood—smeared on the uppermost right corner, maybe intentional, maybe accidental. He sets it back down again. 

Castiel makes a protesting noise and untangles himself, moving slowly into an upright position. He’s swaying slightly. “The birds have stopped singing,” he declares.

“How did this even happen?” Dean asks. Cas is—he isn’t human, is far from it as a matter of fact, and not being human usually includes a resistance to human-made aphrodites. But Cas has always had a natural talent for bending the rules.

Castiel has a huge, blank smile that Dean wants to punch off his face. “I guess I’m just special,” he says, all false cheer and pretend mirth. 

“Yeah, real special,” Dean snorts and kicks aside a tin can full of brushes.

This action earns Dean a little frown from Cas, who says, “Don’t trash my house. I bought it.” A beat. “With my own money.” Another beat. “That I earned.” A third beat. “From the art.”

And the whole thing is so adorable Dean can’t help but feel all his previous anger (at what, exactly? Cas?) drain out of him. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah.” He examines a drawing done in pencil of five distinct shades, made of darkness and shadow. “This is nice.”

Castiel’s smile only grows bigger. “Isn’t it?” he coos. “It’s a portrait.” He jumps over to Dean, peering over his shoulder to look at the drawing. “That’s Meg. And that’s me. That’s Balthazar.” He blinks at the last figure, slightly unsure of who that is. “Lucifer,” he says, not confident at all. “That’s Luci.” Castiel then points to a small patch of white filled with smudges and wild pencil marks. “That’s you. Aren’t you pretty?”

“Uh, yeah,” Dean says. “Real pretty.” 

Castiel nods in agreement, happy and content at the moment. “I’m working on a new painting.” He scoots closer to Dean, looking him up and down. “You’re the model.”

“Wait, what—“ Dean’s only able to get that out before Castiel, laughing drags him off to a stool, where Cas forces to sit and pose. As soon as he’s finished, Cas leaps up and jumps to the canvas. He takes to painting with a furious rage, his blue eyes sharp and focused.

Cas bites his lip in an odd, endearing way, and his head is tilted to the left. Every once in a while, he glances up to stare at Dean intently until Dean is forced to look away and Cas gently tells him to stop moving. Dean makes sarcastic comments in retaliation and they sit in amiable silence for a few hours or so until Cas relaxes and steps back from his painting. 

“You done?” Dean asks, fidgeting in his seat. 

Castiel, high seceding, tilts his head, the beginnings of a smile on his face. “I’m not,” he says. “Far from it, as a matter of fact. But I don’t think mere artwork can capture your beauty.” 

Dean gapes. “What?”

But Cas quickly changes the subject. “How’s Heaven?” 

“F-fine,” Dean says, and he doesn’t stutter. He  _ doesn’t _ .

And Cas smiles, and leans in, and kisses him.

-

The battle comes, and it goes, and they don’t take any notice, too caught up in each other to pay attention.

Balthazar drops by once or twice, and so does Sam along with the rest of the garrison to bring news, but Meg, though she doesn’t urge them to take part in the battle, refuses to speak to them.

None of them are really sure who wins, though Cas secretly suspects the answer is nobody. 


	9. Chapter 9

“I never answered your previous question,” Cas says. They’ve somehow ended up inside the Impala, tangled up in each other’s arms, soaking in warmth and comfort like they depend on it. Dean’s Baby shouldn’t be as comfortable as it is, with them being grown men and all, but with a little glamour it becomes bigger on the inside.

Dean makes a soft, noncommittal noise from the back of his throat, and he clutches Cas tighter and brings one of Cas's hands up to his cheek like if he doesn’t, Cas will disappear and never come back. It’s a long time before he speaks, and when he does, his voice is raspy, lacking the usual easy cheer. Cas has the compelling urge to kiss him. “Which one?” 

“God,” Cas replies, voice muffled slightly. His head is buried in Dean’s chest. “Why don’t you believe?”

Dean sighs, and he unsticks himself from Cas, moving a little so that they’re staring at each other. His own eyes are indecipherable, a cloudy color, and when he blinks, deliberate and painful, Cas shivers, not from the cold, but from something far more primal and ancient. 

Cas speaks with care, choosing every one of his words with a delicate tongue, tasting the letters before he spits them out. “Have you forgotten?” he says, and there’s another question there, hidden in the line of his jaw and the curtain of his eyelashes.

_ Don’t you remember? Creation, Dean. Us— _ them _ —springing into awareness in a single instant of light and fire. _

Dean presses a kiss to Cas's hand, almost absentmindedly.  _ How could I forget? _

Dean has a look of intense frustration on his face, written in the curve of his eyebrows, the puzzled turn of his mouth. “I haven’t,” he whispers into the crevices of Cas's hand. “And I know that, in some point in time, He was there. But he’s a crappy parent, and I don’t think he gives a single fuck about us.”

Cas freezes up, all ice and glacial fury before softening. “Ah,” he murmurs. “Of course.” It’s quiet. They’re both quiet. 

There’s a space there, waiting to be filled, and Dean fills it with awkward, stumbling words. “Sammy still has faith. He’s one of the only ones, really. I’m not sure if any of the others care. It’s gotten better since, you know, but some of them are still crying for blood. ‘M not sure how to calm them. And me, I just don’t care. I mean, look at us. An angel who turned his back against God and you, a goddamn demon, who still thinks He cares.”

Dean waits. There’s no reply, and Dean would think that Cas had left if not for pressing warmth brushing over his skin.

“I don’t know,” Cas says. The statement is curt, simple, and short, spoken in a clipped tone. “It’s odd.” He tilts his forehead to meet Dean’s. “I have what humans call ‘a crisis of faith’ often. I shouldn’t, but I’ve stood in His light, His radiance, absorbed His love.” His voice turns cold. “And He abandoned me.”

Dean rubs a slow circle onto Cas's back.

Cas takes a deep, shuddering breath that ends in a shiver. “I still believe.” The fire is gone, replaced by a quiet stream that flows strong and sure. 

At that, Cas melts, tension draining out of him, and he’s tired, worn like that old coat he insists on wearing. He buries himself in Dean’s arms, and he whispers prose into Dean’s ears, kisses him with a desperate passion.

If Dean listens, he can hear Cas’s words carving out imagery of life and death, of disease and purity, of tales driven by love and revenge, and Dean tries not to choke breathing it in.

Perhaps—perhaps it isn’t right, the way they fit into each other, the way Cas's arm slots into Dean’s side, the way Dean’s lips brush and touch Cas's own, the way…well. Some things are too obscene to mention. And that’s not even counting their respective species. 

It doesn’t matter anyway.

“I love you,” Dean whispers, so quiet he can barely hear it himself. 

“And I you,” Castiel says.

And though Cas is a demon, is the  _ other _ , Dean believes it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you liked it!!!

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote most of this nearly 2 years ago holy shit!!! now im just doing some slight editing and publishing. feels it wouldn't be nice if i just let this rot on my hard drive for all eternity.  
> because of that (and me not being caught up to the show) it will most definitely incredibly clash with canon characterizations especially regarding the faith bits. the angel/demon stuff is all intentionally au, don't worry.
> 
> here's a tumblr: [duckmoles](http://duckmoles.tumblr.com) (specifically, my tumblr)
> 
> kudo/comment if you can!!! i crave attention.


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